


Potential

by magickbeing



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Moreid, Spencer Reid/Derek Morgan - Freeform, light kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magickbeing/pseuds/magickbeing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid go house hunting and quickly learn that while some things might not live up to expectations, that doesn't mean there isn't potential. </p><p>And Derek considers himself an expert on potential.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Potential

**Author's Note:**

> ...a special thank you to kerbubbles/eidetic187 for feeding my inspiration with constant key-smashing and flattery.  <3<3 Thank you so much for listening to all of my late night ramblings, happy or sad, and encouraging me to stay inspired.

The listing calls it a charming piece of history. Two stories. Four bedrooms, a single bathroom, a reportedly spacious kitchen with an attached sun-room that could be used as a dining room, and an old, dirt cellar.

 

Spencer is practically _bouncing_ on the edge of his seat, foot tapping against the floor-boards, and Derek tries calming the movement with a gentle touch of his hand to his knee. His left leg stills but his right takes up the beat where his other left off. Derek chuckles.

 

“Relax, pretty boy—“ he gives him a side-glance as he turns, lips twitching into a smile, “I mean, what are the odds it's sold in the hour you've talked to the agent?”

 

Spencer doesn't miss a beat.

 

“One in ninety thousand, three hundred and eighty one.”

 

Derek's grin widens, stretching up to touch his eyes, and he nods once.

 

“See? There you go.” He pats his knee twice, fingertips brushing over the lines of his corduroys. “I'd say those are pretty good odds.”

 

Spencer's gaze doesn't stray from the window.

 

“I've had better.”

 

Derek laughs again, shaking his head, and turns his own attention to the road as they take a sharp curve to the right.

 

*

 

“It was built in the early 1800's,” Spencer continues, grin wide as he peers up at it. “Do you know what that means, Derek? The history—“

 

“The history?” Derek interrupts, lips curled up in a slight grimace. “It means it's structurally unsound, kid! The last owners... they were _not_ kind to this house—“

 

“But—“ Spencer is forced to stop as he steps up and onto the porch, wood sagging dangerously under his weight. He quickly side-steps and tries recovering with a bright, deliberate smile. “It's been restored since—“ Derek snorts and Spencer narrows his eyes, “—okay, admittedly not _well_ but the original owners of this house were—“ he stops as Derek carefully touches the frame of the nearest window, fingertips pressing into soft, weak paneling. Spencer can't bring himself to be irritated with the other man. To be honest, he's a bit caught off guard by the house too. The pictures and description were a bit.... deceiving to say the least.

 

He presses his lips against a frown.

 

“Derek, are you listening to me?”

 

Derek makes a non-comittal noise in the back of his throat that tells Spencer everything but what it's likely supposed to. He's _definitely_ not listening.

 

Spencer sighs, moving to unlock the padlock on the door with the four digit code the real estate agent gave him. The door pushes open easily and Derek mutters something about it being illogical that they put a padlock on it when he could probably push himself through a wall.

 

Spencer rolls his eyes and tries to remain optimistic as they step inside.

 

And fails.

 

Miserably.

 

If the house looks aged and deprecated from the outside, it somehow manages to look like _death_ on the inside. There's a strong odor, musty and suffocating, and he can almost _taste_ it. The atmosphere of the house somehow manages to make his skin crawl and he doesn't have arachnaphobia—really, he doesn't—but the hairs on either arm and the back of his neck stand on edge as he looks at the cob-webs lining the ceiling, nose wrinkling when he realizes he can actually _see_ upstairs into one of the bedrooms. His eyes flick down, skirting over the entry way again. Some of the walls have had their dry-wall peeled away and Spencer thinks he can see why Derek thinks the house is structually unsound. Some of those boards do _not_ look very strong and several have traces of obvious mildew and mold.

 

It's unsurprising to realize that this room was _not_ pictured on the website.

 

His lips turn into a grimace and he shakes his head, turning to look at his partner.

 

“At least... the flooring seems sturdy?” it's another feeble attempt to remain optimistic but it comes out as a question instead of a statement and he blows out a hard breath, dropping the charade nearly as abruptly as he had re-armed himself with it. “Okay, I'm willing to admit it. You're right. The house needs... a demolition crew, not a restoration.” His shoulders seem to slump down with the confession and then Derek is behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and drawing him close. It's a natural, instinctive response to lean into the contact, to tilt his body against his so that his head is leaning back and against his shoulder, one that he's powerless to resist. So he doesn't.

 

Instead, he looks up at the ceiling again.

 

“The master bedroom looks big, though,” he comments wryly, a scoff wedged between the words.

 

Derek chuckles, shifting to press a chaste kiss to his temple.

 

“I can't fault you for trying to look on the bright side, pretty boy,” he mutters, looking around the entry-way himself. With all of the death and danger and _evil_ they surround themselves with, trying to remain optimistic is an admirable trait to have. His arms tighten around a lithe body, giving the thinner man a gentle squeeze, and then his touch is retracting. Spencer straightens, making a bit of a face at the lack of contact, but then Derek is lacing his fingers with his.

 

He tugs him to the right, toward what appears to be the kitchen.

 

“There's a difference between being optimistic and stupid, Derek,” Spencer replies dryly, following the other man nonetheless. “I'm capable of realizing when I'm dangerously close to the latter.”

 

Derek snorts, shaking his head, and manages a reply of: “And I'm capable of realizing what ever I say to that will likely end with me being slapped...” his voice trails off as they stop in the threshold, his eyes skirting over stripped walls and broken cupboards. While the cupboards have all been torn from the wall, they're collected in a pile in the opposing corner of the room—well, _most_ of the pieces have been, anyway. Maybe someone thought that made it look more presentable.

 

Too bad they left the rusted kitchen sink in the center of the room, flipped upside down under a dangerously low hanging chandelier.

 

Derek eyes the sagging ceiling warily, mouth scrunching up.

 

“I'm not letting you go upstairs—just so we're clear on that.” It's tossed casually over his shoulder and toward the man lingering a step behind him.

 

“...I thought you believed in living life dangerously?” Spencer tries, the joke falling flat as his eyes follow Derek's gaze toward the sagging ceiling.

 

Derek looks away, scoffing at the attempted humor, and turns toward Spencer.

 

“What can I say? I've gotten used to being a kept man,” he counters, the teasing lining his reply more prominent than Spencer's had been. Spencer manages a smile, faint and small, his eyes settling on his.

 

“A kept man?” he repeats, brow creasing.

 

Derek nods, tugging him closer with a slight jerk of his hand in his.

 

“Mmhm. Let's be honest, you sorta spoil me, babe.” It's as light and teasing as the remark that had come before it and it's enunciated with a lingering kiss to the corner of Spencer's mouth. Spencer's smile widens then and an arm comes up to sling around Derek's waist.

 

“Thought that was my line?” he teases, chasing Derek's lips with his own.

 

*

 

Derek knows Spencer doesn't like blind-folds.

 

And Spencer knows Derek is trying to be kind, at least in one aspect, and arguing that he doesn't like surprises either probably won't help his case. So instead he promises to keep his eyes shut and pretends to be genuinely intimidated when Derek threatens bodily harm if he catches him peaking. Spencer keeps the fact that he doesn't _need_ to peak to himself—he can tell which direction they're going by the way his body sways in the seat—despite how his chair is tilted back so that if he _does_ peak, he only sees the ceiling of the truck.

  
Derek thinks he's clever and Spencer lets him, although if he's correct—which he probably is—they're traveling north east on the highway.

 

His leg bounces up and down, a familiar action, and the touch is only calmed with Derek's hand against his knee, thumb rubbing small circles against clothed skin.

 

Derek is driving for approximately thirty three minutes and twenty nine seconds. Factoring in his fluctuating speed, Spencer is fairly certain they've traveled approximately 19.3 miles. _Approximately._

 

He presses his lips against a sigh when Derek tells him to stay there and keep his eyes closed or _so help me, pretty boy._

 

He rolls his eyes and although the action isn't seen, he's fairly certain Derek can tell by the twitch of his features because then he's mumbling _don't you roll your eyes at me, kid,_ and Spencer is pressing his lips against a smile instead. Derek climbs out of his truck and hurries around to the other side to open Spencer's door. He goes about unbuckling him and everything despite Spencer's complaints of:

 

“I'm not a kid, Derek—I'm 33 years old and I'm not incapable of taking care of myself just because you insist I keep my eyes closed.”

 

He can practically _hear_ Derek rolling his eyes in reply and then he's being helped out of the truck, nearly falling from its ledge and to the ground—directly into a pair of strong arms. He always forgets how high Derek's truck sits up because _the size of those tires is illogical—having your truck lifted like this actually decreases your approximate MPG—_

 

Derek's voice interrupts the memory, thick with amusement: “You were saying, _kid?_ ”

 

Spencer scowls, glaring at Derek through closed eyelids.

 

It doesn't have the same effect and he can feel as much as hear his chuckle, Derek's arms lingering around his person.

 

“Let's just get this over with,” he mutters, feet firmly on the ground then.

 

There's a smile in Derek's voice when he replies, “If you insist.”

 

Before Spencer can step away, Derek is shifting against him, moving so that his arm is dropping to the back of his legs and—

 

“Derek Morgan, don't you—“

 

The word _dare_ is more of a squeak than anything else as Derek lifts Spencer into his arms, shifting to carry him bridal style, and Spencer's eyes open on their own accord. He tries convincing himself that his voice isn't a low whine as his arms weave around Derek's neck, body practically clinging to his.

 

“You know I hate it when you—“

 

Derek pins him with a look, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed as their eyes meet.

 

“Hey—you're peaking!” the observation is indignant and the threat that follows empty: “Don't make me drop you, kid.”

 

But then it's too late because Spencer's eyes have caught on the silhouette of the house through the windows of Derek's truck, his forehead wrinkling with confusion. It's nearly dusk but he can clearly make out the cut and angle of the house in fading light. His fingers absently twist into the fabric of Derek's shirt, along the lines of his shoulders, and his eyes settle on his again. “Why are we here?”

 

Derek's eyebrows raise slightly on their own accord and his lips twitch against a smile.

 

“You'll see,” is the only answer Spencer receives and then his eyes are closing again because Derek is turning, easily carrying him toward the house, and he's pressing his own face against the curve of his shoulder and neck. Derek knows he _hates_ being carried. It makes him feel helpless and it's not that he doesn't _trust_ Derek but the probabilities of the other man dropping him are higher than he'd like.

 

He can feel as much as hear the chuckle that reverberates through Derek's chest as he moves across the yard and Spencer mutters an indignant defense against his skin: “'s'not funny.”

 

Derek's reply is light and teasing, his arms tightening around his body with the words: “I'll be the judge of that.”

 

He'd slap Derek if he wasn't worried that letting go of the other man would shift his weight to the point of the both of them toppling over. His grip actually tightens on the other man as he feels Derek climb the few stairs leading onto the porch of the house and now he's _really_ frightened because the floor is _not sturdy._ Having their weight spread over a cubic foot is bad enough, but to have it compacted and pinned to a smaller space is just _reckless._

 

He tries to tell Derek this but what comes out instead is, “Derek. Put me down. _Put me down._ ”

 

Derek ignores him and, if anything, his arms seem to tighten around his body and Spencer squeezes his eyes shut more firmly than before, spots of light flitting in and out of his vision. He's about to start cursing at the other man—which he _never_ does—but then Derek is stopping and his grip is shifting, moving so that he can properly lower his lover into a standing position.

 

As soon as Spencer's feet touch the floor, his own grip loosens and a hand reels up to slap at the back of Derek's shoulder.

 

Derek laughs and Spencer glares at him through blurred vision.

 

Still, when Derek's arms settle around his waist, Spencer can't help but to lean into the warm body near his, his chin hooking over Derek's shoulder.

 

“I hate you sometimes,” he mutters, voice as indignant as before.

 

Derek hugs him close, easily picking apart the lie.

 

“Sure you do,” he mutters, clearly humoring him. Spencer slaps his back again and more laughter dances through his form.

 

It's after several moments of just holding each other that Spencer sobers, shifting to draw back enough to properly look at his partner. It's with raised eyebrows that he asks: “So... why _are_ we here?”

 

He has his suspicions, of course, but surely even Derek couldn't be _that_ stupid.

 

The smile that touches Derek's features tells Spencer otherwise and he opens his mouth to say something—what, he doens't know—but then Derek is answering him, voice soft. “We're here because it's home.”

 

A grimace touches his features.

 

“Derek, you didn't—“ he starts, head tilting slightly to the left.

 

“Sorry to break it to you, pretty boy, but I did,” he interrupts, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to Spencer's lips, something he knows almost _always_ silences him. As expected the kiss works, Spencer's lips slipping shut on their own accord, the grimace smoothing—at least partially—from his features, dark eyes searching his own. He blows out a slow, deliberate breath, a hand flitting over Spencer's back. “Look—I know this house isn't what you expected—and it might not be our dream home—not yet—but... it has potential. The over-all structure is safe—yeah, the floors need fixing and I'm still not letting you upstairs—and needing a bit of TLC _might_ be an understatement, but...” Spencer is tempted to interrupt to point out that he's not the _only_ one that rambles sometimes, but there's something in Derek's expression and voice that keeps him quiet, something fond and purely affectionate as his eyes flit about the room only to settle again on his as he repeats, “ _it has potential.”_

 

Derek's lips are pulling into a smile then, wider than before but still soft, and Spencer's aware of his arms tightening around him again.

 

His eyes are locked on his.

 

“And trust me—I know potential when I see it.”

 

Spencer scoffs, his own lips pressing against an answering smile—one that Derek seems determined to uncover because then he's leaning in and catching his mouth with his own. Their lips easily slot together and Spencer's eyes flutter shut as his lover deepens the kiss, tongue skirting across the seam of his mouth only to delve inside a mere moment later and dance against his own; one of his hands swipe up to settle against the back of Derek's neck and he bites at the other man's bottom lip. There's a low, throaty noise that answers, a groan of sorts that catches in Derek's throat, and then Spencer is being turned, pressed back and into the nearby wall.

 

Both men pull apart when plaster-dust sprinkles itself from the ceiling, settling against their hair and shoulders.

 

Spencer makes a face, reaching up to brush it from his hair, and starts muttering statistics about construction related injuries—Derek seems content with ignoring him, with making them finish their moment, because his mouth trails down to suck and bite at the pulse-point against his neck. Spencer gives up trying to resist, tilting his head back so that he's peering up at the ceiling with closed eyelids, a hard shiver skipping down his spine, and he knows that this _is_ home—if only because Derek is there.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I'm still trying to work on another story in The Used series... it's just slow coming.
> 
> Please take a moment to comment if you enjoyed this story or just enjoy my writing in general. Even a simple 'more' or 'love it' feeds my confidence and therefore my muse to write.


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